


Siren Song

by notADWarrick



Category: The Odyssey - Homer
Genre: F/F, Italy, Love, Odyssey, Romance, Sea, gender bend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 05:24:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10550798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notADWarrick/pseuds/notADWarrick
Summary: Wrote this for my fiction workshop class, but I just thought you guys would enjoy reading it! A woman ventures out into the depths of the mediterranean to find the sirens, and in turn her deepest desires, but instead finds... you guessed it... love. Read at your own risk it's super gay.





	

**__ **

   

My ship is tossing on the sea like a gull caught in a gust of wind. The water below us is the deepest blue I've ever seen. A blue that speaks of darkness and pain, its white-capped fury spurring us from one wave to the next. Something is ahead.

The fog is thick and I can only barely see the thin beam that our ship light makes. I close my eyes, letting the cold and the wetness seep through my down jacket, and into my bones. The marrow there shivers, and I can feel a tingle run up my spine. We are close. I strain, waiting for the sound to come.

"Plug your ears, and tie me to the mast," I yell to the crew. Without saying much they wade through the thick air around us to do as I have said. They know of my mission, and have willingly agreed to my terms of employment. I have waited for years. I have plotted the nest of the sirens again and again; recalculating each time there is another ship that does not return to the port that I call my home.

 

"Tighter. Tie the knots tighter. I don’t want to escape," I urge, while one of the crewmen lashes me to the mast as I have commanded. My body aches with the strain against the rope, and I am glad of it. I want to feel the pain; it keeps me warm. I want to hear the song and know that I will return.

For hours I wait, the fog swirling around me. All I can feel is the cold deck of the ship hard against my ass, and the roughly hewn rope cutting sharply into my wrists. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I've miscalculated. Doubt fills me as the ship drifts on and on through the water and before long I can feel the hot tears of defeat trickling down my cheeks. I scream at no one, wishing only to hear the sound I long for. To know. I have lost almost all hope.

 

"All I wish it to hear your voice!" I yell. "I long only to know what my deepest desire is! I know you are out there, hiding! Please! I beg you!" For a few seconds my voice lies flat, and it’s emptiness echoes in my head.

At long last, a single, unbroken note rises from the void around me. I strain against my ropes already, longing to see them, for surely they know I am here. So beautiful, so kind is this song. Of love and pain and all that has been lost. It is my song. I no longer cry in defeat but in happiness. I can barely see, my mind clouded by this wonderful voice, my sight clouded by my own tears, and by the ever-swirling fog. It seems to be moving fast around me, collecting on a point down the bow. At first, it is just a blurry shape, materializing slowly. I try desperately to focus on what it is. Many moments pass, and then, she emerges from the shape in the fog, her long hair blowing in some kind of nonexistent wind. She is skin and bones, translucent and almost impossible to define. I did not expect this. What have I done? I pull against the ropes holding me harder than ever, and they cut into my skin again. I can feel the warm blood trickling onto my hands, dripping on to the deck. She walks towards me, floating on her toes, smiling. Her teeth flash at me like pearls. They are almost inhuman; pointed. She cups my chin in one petal soft hand. Her nails are clipped to points, and I can see the thin spidery blue veins under the skin of her wrist. Her eyes are as black as the night sky. Still the song surrounds me.

 

"What do you see, young one?" she whispers. I am lost in her touch, in her eyes, in her words. She is nothing I have ever seen before, She is something so wondrous I couldn't have conjured her even in my dreams.

 

"Beauty," I answer "and unending temptation" my voice is so meek, that I do not even know that I have spoken. A small pink tongue darts out of her mouth. She licks her lips as she stares at me unblinking still.

 

"You are the only one to see me as I am, young one. As death and beauty wrapped into one. I can feel it in your heart. You want to know your truest desire? It was this. Only to hear me sing. And I have never known such innocence and truth in desire. All too often, it is only inconsequential feelings of love and lust or longing for another human. But you. You only long for me." I know it is the truth. This is a journey I took alone. I spent hours calculating, theorizing, and just so I could end here; to find what I longed for. So intense was my desire I did not realize it had consumed me. She takes her hand away from my face, stroking her fingers along my wet cheeks. I can see a look of great pain on her face.

 

"You can come with me," she says. "I will not dash you on the rocks as I did the others. I will love you as only a siren can." For a moment I am shocked so much the world begins to spin, and I am lost. The song, still echoing around me, is the only thing that brings me back.

 

"Yes," is the only thing I can choke out. My voice sounds rough and gravely compared to the grace of hers.

 

"Hush. Come with me." The knots in the ropes that bind me have slithered undone, from her magic no doubt. I walk along the boat, until I have reached the very prow. I can't feel the cold anymore or the cuts on my wrists. I stand on the rails, watching the water churn below me. The song is the only thing I can hear, and I am about to fall headlong into the water. She is there. She is what I want. She will catch me. As I take a breath, about to jump, a hand jerks me back, throwing me on to the unforgiving hardwood deck. The fog seems to dissipate. Her voice is gone. Gone. I miss it already.

 

I thrash against the planks, screaming, "WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME GO! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!” A crewmember holds me down.

 

"Ma'am you were about to jump off the boat! What did you see?" my body feels still as if it is not mine, but after a minute I regain control, and sit up. I stare into the emptiness above me where I can now see the blue specks of sky beyond the clouds. "Truth." Is all I can muster as a reply through my fresh tears, already falling again onto the deck.

 

***

 

            The return home to the city of Messina is lonely. The crew does not ask me what I saw in the fog, and I do not speak of it. I have escaped unharmed, after all, and that should be enough, right? I got what I came for. An answer. Being a captain is natural thing for me, and navigation is almost second nature. I have spent my life living by and on the seas. My father was a cartographer who sailed the Mediterranean his whole life, mapping its every inch in determination. He taught me all the skills I know now, taking me on voyages many times, teaching me how to use his tools, raise the sails, command a crew. Being a woman never made these things easier as I grew and many times I had to earn the respect I ought to have already been deserving of. Unlike my father, though, I cannot remain at sea forever. 

            After all the fog that pervaded most of our trip, the return is easy and clear, with the clouds only tailing us for a few days. Within two weeks I am back at the port I know so well. Sicily is a big and bustling island, with much to explore, and for a young Italian woman, it is a wonderful place. Messina is a quiet for a city. It sits on the straight, just north of mount Etna. Admittedly, my life is somewhat double. The ships and the sea are my true calling, but I work in an old bookshop on the main street most of the time. Almanacs and maps from all over the world work their way through the doors.

It’s a few days after the return of my ship, which is now moored at the dock gathering barnacles. For what must be the hundredth time I am leaning with my arm on the counter, head in my hands, gazing out the shop window towards where I know the water is. I do this often, for by now I have studied almost every map in the store, and there is no use getting them out only to fuss around at busy work. A merchant wanders in for a few minutes, scrutinizes the displays, and wanders away. I hear footsteps from the storeroom. The owner, Mr. Esposito, walks out, his half-moon glasses sliding down his nose as he looks at records for the past month. He’s balding and the sunlight bouncing around the shop catches on the dome of his head.

 

            “Do you know anyone that would want to catch some extra hours on the weekends while you’re out sailing?” he asks. “The boy that was here while you were gone barely knew the Dewey Decimal system.”

 

            “Sure. I could think of a few people,” I mumble, still not quite coming out of my daze.

I don’t think much of the favor Mr. Esposito asked of me until the next day when I reach the shop. It’s not a long trek from my one-bedroom apartment a few miles away, but this morning the fog is thick and heavy. It feels strange. It’s rolled off the sea in the night, and the air smells like seaweed and something else. Maybe… honey? It’s sweet, like a butterscotch candy. If I didn’t know my way by heart to the shop, I would have lost myself in even the short drive that it took on my little Vespa. I am thankful at least that I had the headlight fixed last winter. I park in a lot across the road, walk across the street, and reach for the door of the shop. I am surprised find that it’s already unlocked. The white blanket from the fog isn’t the only light in the shop as is per usual in the mornings. The window is lit and Mr. Esposito is at the counter, talking with someone. Her back is to me, and she has long black hair so dark it looks almost blue in the strange light. The curve of her body is almost an hourglass and it’s a good few seconds before I can focus on what they’re saying. Normally, I’m not attracted to much of anyone, but I am struck dumb, even without seeing her face.

 

“Yes, yes, just Saturdays and Sundays for the most part. We usually don’t get customers until the afternoon. If you do well, I might have you meet with a few of our more common sellers. They come through a couple times a month with new wares,” says Mr. Esposito

 

“That sounds delightful. Can I start this Saturday?” her voice is wonderful. I know it. I know it from somewhere. I am lost in her face, for again there is something of it that I recognize. Round red lips, and eyes so dark they look like coal.

 

“What was that?” I say, knowing I have missed something.

 

“This is Calypso. She’ll be taking shifts on the weekends. She came in early to inquire about open positions, said her mother came through once, and told her of the great maps we sell.”

 

“Y…yes.” I stutter, attempting to cover my blunder. “I’m Ody. It’s nice to meet you!” I hold out my hand to shake hers, and she grasps it with a firm grip, pulling me just a little closer to her body. My heart leaps is my chest.

 

“Call me Cal.” She says, studying me. I can feel my blush, and sense that my usual olive skin tone has more than likely gone bright pink.

 

“Sure.” It’s quiet for a few seconds, but the pause doesn’t feel awkward. I’ve probably got a goofy grin on my face when Mr. Esposito interrupts. He is looking at me with his eyebrows raised, clearly not oblivious to my open attraction to Cal.

 

“Will you show Cal around the shop duties today please Ody? I need to run some errands. I’m meeting with a mapmaker from Thailand in a restaurant on the outskirts of the city. I’ll be back by the time you close up around sunset.”

 

“No problem.” I answer, looking at the slatted wooden floorboards, trying to hide my blushing face. Mr. Esposito steps around the two of us, and I hear the bell hung on the door tinkle as he leaves. I’m still looking at the floor, trying to get my brain to keep working.

 

“So, the job’s not too hard,” I say to Cal, “I’ll show you around all the different stuff we have. Almanacs are organized by year, they’re over there. We have several editions that date to the seventeenth century.” I point to row of shelves in the back, most of them bound with thick leather spines. “Maps are organized according to region. If they’re the same region, by last name of the cartographer.” This time I gesture towards the next room over, which is filled from top to bottom with scrolls and old map books.

 

“What’s this?” she asks, pointing to a display case by the almanacs.

 

“That’s a sextant. It’s used mainly by cartographers and sailors to plot their journey. The rumor is that my namesake used it. Odysseus. Although, I’m not too inclined to believe it. Before my father passed he left it with me, and I got this job when I came in dirt poor, trying to sell it. Mr. Esposito bought it on one condition. That I start the next day.”

 

“Your name is really Odysseus?” She asks.

 

“Yeah. Strange name for a girl, but my dad was obsessed with Homer, and that was to be my name, male child or not. You can call me Ody though. Simpler.” She wanders around as I speak, looking at all the maps, picking up one up, rolling it out on the table in the other room, studying it for a minute before rolling it back into a tight tube and moving on. I watch her from my place behind the counter. Her skin seems almost translucent it’s so pale. She moves with grace too, floating. Her hair trails in tendrils behind her, flowing like water.

I show her how the register works, how to ring up our more common items, the larger paper maps we sell of the city and the island. She catches on well enough, but the touch screen of the register seem to baffle her a little which is strange. I show her the storeroom where we keep holds and books that need to be repaired as well, taking her briefly through the process of book binding. There’s a lot to do today, and she watches me as I work, ringing up customers that wander in and sewing back together an almanac charting the weather patterns for the island back from 1965. I work delicately, but I don’t really know what to talk to her about. Mostly I babble of my sailing and Mount Etna. She seems interested, for the most part, but I am not a good judge of emotions. Around noon, I give her some money and send her out for some sandwiches from the deli across the street. When she comes back, I’m showing a young blonde man a map of Upper Egypt, where the Nile connects to the Mediterranean. When the customer leaves, I turn the sign on the door to say “Closed” so that we may rest and eat. We sit behind the counter, and as I take the first bite of my sandwich, she speaks of something other than work for the first time since she inquired after my name and how I came to work at the shop.

 

“ You fascinate me.” She says. I almost choke on my sandwich. “I am new not just to the city, but to the island, and I would like it if you showed me the places you speak of.”

 

“Of course” I say after I swallow my food.

 

***

 

The days pass like a flowing river under a bridge, and our lunch becomes tradition. Some days, after work, we drive around the cobbled streets on my scooter and I show her the places of my childhood. I relish the times when I speed against the wind and she grips me tighter as the motor purrs beneath us. It keeps me warm on even the coldest days. She studies me endlessly, as if I were some kind of great wonder. One day, we take off from work, and hike around Mount Etna. I show her the roughly sketched maps I have made of the trails and ruins that dot the area. Again, Mr. Esposito isn’t oblivious. Every once in awhile, I see his raised eyebrow when he catches me gazing at her for long periods of time as she whisks around the shop, organizing, repairing, filing. Cal says she will not stay long. I never see her when the fog does not crawl along the city streets. It seems to follow her. I already ache at the thought of her leaving, and decide to put it from my mind till the time comes.

 

“When are you going to tell her how you feel?” Mr. Esposito asks me one day, as we walk go to visit a library in hopes of finding an unusual almanac.

 

“When it feels right,” I reply. “I don’t know how, really.”

 

“Take her to the shore,” He says. “I saw her on the beach, wading in the water one day while she was away from the shop. She almost seemed to glow.”

***

It takes some time for me to ask her. I may be obvious but I am not brave in matters of the heart. I try again and again, every day in the shop, but the words will not leave my mouth. Today the fog seems thinner than it has been, and for a change we have climbed to the roof by way of the fire escape to eat our lunch. Cal seems sick. She looks almost gray today, and she gazes into the middle distance, searching for the shoreline. We have finished eating, and sit with our legs dangling over the brick edge of the roof.

 

“I have to leave soon.” She almost whispers. My heart sinks. “I do not feel well, and I must journey out again to feel better. The reason I do not stay anywhere very long is because the journey is my calling. If I don’t keep moving, I will wither, and although this place makes my heart happy, I have stayed put too long.” I let out a loud breath in response, and courage I did not know I had within me wells up. The words spill from my mouth in desperation, one last grasp at keeping her by my side.

 

“If you must go, then please, before you do, have dinner by the shore with me. You know how much I love the sea, and I would be upset if it was the only part of this city I did not show you.”

 

“This, I will grant you” she replies, a smile gracing her beautiful features. A single ray off shines through the fog, and for moment when it hits her, I see something else. But it could not be, I tell myself, and I put it out of my mind.

***

It’s evening, and I have promised her dinner on the shore. The fog seems heavy tonight, and the last dregs of the sunset are fading through the clouds in an orangey pink light. Still, it is warm and beautiful. There’s a picnic basket on my arm with her favorite sandwich. Today I can see the sea even in the way she moves. Cal almost dances down the streets as we walk to the dock, spinning and smiling, pulling me after her like a receding tide. She is happy. When we reach the water, she throws her shoes off, wading in with the ends of her dress flaring out behind her like a fan. I set down my picnic basket and join her, rolling up my pant legs so they don’t get wet. The water is the same blue that it was the day I saw the siren, and as I gaze into the waves I know. I know who she is. I know why she seemed so familiar when we first met. The spell has finally lifted. I look up, and she is there. She reaches out her hand, placing it again on my cheek, just as she did many months ago.

 

“I know that you love me,” she says. “You never had to tell me, or bring me here, but I knew that you would anyway.” Again there are tears on my cheeks. I have so rarely cried since the day she came to the shop, and now all I have held down is coming up, spilling into the water below me.

 

“Do you love me back?” I ask her.

 

“Yes,” she says, and for the first time since that fateful day out on the choppy seas, I hear the song again. “Come with me,” she calls as she wades further into the water, her face pleading. “Please!” I hear her voice fading. At long last, with no one to stop me, I follow.


End file.
